Sickman
by BrokenSolitude
Summary: A tribute to Layne Staley, formerly of the band Alice in Chains. Jerry Cantrell has a conversation with Layne. Moderate language and themes of morbidity. One-shot.


**Sickman**- An Alice in Chains oneshot (tribute to Layne Staley)

**A/N:** Alright. So I'm hoping that no one will take offense to this. Obviously Jerry Cantrell has his head on pretty straight in reality, and is 99.99% not being portrayed as true-to-life. But this short story is sort of my homage to the memory of Layne Staley, one of my favorite vocalists of all time. This story was not meant to be defaming or crude, just an interpretation of a fictional moment leading up to the recording of the title track "Black Gives Way to Blue" off AiC's 2009 album. None of this happened (at least, not that I know of), and I make no profit or any sort of revenue from this. I love Alice in Chains dearly, and I mean no harm to any members, past or present. Oh, and I have absolutely NO idea what Jerry's home in LA looks like, so I'm just making it up here. With all that said, on with the story!

* * *

"Go away, Layne." Jerry kicked the front door of his house shut behind him and tossed his guitar case on his living room sofa.

"Hmm...not a great way to greet your best friend and frontman, who was just in the neighborhood and thought he'd visit, is it?" Layne Staley dropped his head into the arm chair headrest and stared at Jerry upside-down.

Jerry Cantrell glared at Layne dismally and shrugged, taking off his sneakers and tossing them in the corner by the stairs.

"You're not our frontman anymore, Layne." He spoke softly, as though in the interim of waking up between a confusing dream and a confusing reality.

"Well, what about being your best friend?" Layne's hypnotic blue eyes bored holes into the side of Jerry's face. He flinched, a shudder running through his whole body, ending with a resolved about-face to the La-Z-boy.

"You've always been, and will always be like a brother to me, _Blanche_. You know that." The exhausted guitarists' expression softened, betraying his seemingly ageless face. The singer smiled.

Layne's fit figure shifted in the plush chair, and Jerry caught a whiff of the scent of old cigarettes and the tears of many sleepless nights. He whipped a lighter and a pack of smokes out from his coat pocket before taking it off and tossing it over the banister, moving to cross the room and sit on the only portion of the sofa that his guitar didn't cover. He put his feet up on the coffee table and flicked the BIC lighter, looking into the warm glow of the flame for a brief moment before setting the cancer stick alight. As Jerry unhurriedly puffed on the cigarette, relaxing via nicotine, Layne looked around the living room.

"You changed something, didn't you?"

Jerry nodded, blowing out ever so slowly. "Yeah. I moved."

"I guess that explains why it looks so different, then." Layne chuckled, gesturing to the guitar. "So what have you been working on?"

Jerry eyed Layne from the short distance between them, almost sizing him up. A part of him didn't want to show-and-tell to Layne what he'd been working on, because he was concerned that Layne wouldn't like it. But the man looked genuinely interested, and his constant, unquenchable thirst for knowledge had always beaten Jerry into submission when it came to baring all and having no secrets.

"I've been working...on your tribute song, Layne." The inhabitant of the arm chair let his eyes slip closed, and swallowed.

"Wanna clue me in on this, Jer?"

Jerry rose, suddenly agitated and unable to sit still. He paced the length of the living room, resisting the urge to look at Layne.

"You can't keep showing up like this. You can't keep catching me by surprise and 'just dropping in'. I mean...you're not really here, Layne. You're...you've been dead for almost seven years now." Jerry stopped, mid-pace, and looked at the apparition helplessly. Layne shot him a sideways glance that glinted with the hint of a supernatural blue.

"I know that. About not being here, that is. But I'm not exactly in control of when and where I show up, am I? And if that's so, then am I really dead?"

Jerry leaned over and tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ash tray on the coffee table, sinking back heavily into the couch.

"I don't know, man. I mean, you left this world, but you've never really left any of us. I've tried to let go, put an end to the drug use, went on another break-up spell from Alice, and done my own thing for a while now, not to mention finally recruiting a new singer and signing to another label so we can start this all over again, but you keep appearing. I guess I'm just a sick man, Layne." Jerry glanced up at the hallucination from under a few stray locks of his platinum hair.

Layne caught the pun and rolled his eyes.

"Cut the drama, Jerry. We've already established that I'm fuckin' buried. I'm not exactly as thrilled about it as you seem to be, but hell, there isn't a lot I can do about it from inside your abused brain. Besides, being dead is kind of relaxing, anyway. Like a resort vacation, but you haven't dreamed me up the resort yet." Layne glared at his friend pointedly, hoping Jerry would take the hint. "So are you gonna show me what you've written so far, or do I have to go digging through your head later myself?"

Silently, Jerry opened the guitar case and pulled out the instrument, plus some loose papers with lyrics and notes scrawled out on them. He spread the papers on the coffee table for Layne to examine, and watched the dead band member rake his startling blue eyes over the page.

"How much do you have written so far?"

"All of it. I've had it written for a while now, but I'm still tweaking some things. I'm trying to get Elton John to play piano on the track."

Layne looked up at him, surprised. "Really? Huh. I dunno if that's cool or just sappy." Jerry snorted.

"Hey. This is for you. If you don't like it, tough. It's still going on the fuckin' album, Layne, because no one cares what you think about it. Which may well be because I'm the only one who knows what you're thinking about it." Jerry stopped there, catching himself talking to Layne as if he was really sitting there again. He really needed a brain scan or something. Or at least a beer.

Layne held up his hands in mock-fear. "Chill out, man. Relax. Have you recorded any vocals yet?"

"No. In fact, William and I aren't quite sure of what vocal configuration to use on the track yet."

Layne looked over the words again, appearing deep in thought.

"Play it." He commanded. Jerry did as he was told, executing his parts flawlessly, as was the usual. Layne sat back, drinking in and absorbing the piece that was written in his memory.

Jerry finished the song, looking at Layne's figure expectantly. Layne peeled his eyes open slowly and leaned forward in the armchair, his elbows resting on his knees.

"I like it a lot. It's really different than the old Alice's slower songs. But tell me that this is not what the whole album is gonna be like."

Jerry smiled, shaking his head in the negative. "Nah. Just this one song. The rest is heavy shit." Layne looked visibly relieved, and then motioned towards the guitar again.

"Can you play it again?" In response, Jerry started the song over.

Suddenly, Layne opened his mouth and began to sing. Jerry was a little startled- since he'd been having the visions of Layne post-mortem, Layne had never once sang a note. But he found the singing to fit the music perfectly. Layne wasn't forcing anything loud or harsh. He was just singing his own eulogy. As used to be the norm, Jerry pitched in his own vocals to the mix, and worked hard to keep himself from choking on the words that he just didn't want to be about Layne. When they finished, Jerry composed himself and set the guitar back in the case gently.

"So? What do you think of that?" Layne's eyes locked on the cat that prowled across the living room, towards Jerry. "Fine, Sadie. Don't say hi to me." He looked relatively hurt that his cat was ignoring him as Jerry picked up the animal, stroking her gray fur lovingly.

"She can't see you, Layne. In fact, she's probably just here to confirm that I've totally lost my damn mind by talking to and harmonizing with the arm chair for over an hour straight. And I think it's perfect. I'll pose the vocals to William in the morning."

Layne narrowed his eyes at the cat, muttering something that sounded like "ungrateful bitch," but then smiled at Jerry, like he was conveying an unspoken secret.

"You're welcome."

"You're not."

"I know." Layne was still grinning at him, and Jerry just chuckled, giving into Layne's not-so-persuasive argument as to his appearances. But rebellion had always been his style. At least Jerry's mind hadn't tainted Layne's personality at all.

"You know that this will probably be the last time you conjure me up, right?" Layne's face suddenly grew serious, and he ran a hand through his blond hair as he lay back and propped a foot up on the coffee table, staring at the ceiling.

"Likely. The song sort of seals the deal." Jerry felt the all-too familiar pangs of loss shoot through his chest, but this time, they were mixed with a sort of stoic forgiveness and tenacity.

"Yeah. But you know, I'm never gonna let you forget me."

"Because you're really gonna slip my mind, Layne."

The two men shot a meaningful glance at one another. Jerry stood, placing the cat on the floor, kicking one of her toy mice across the carpet for her to play with, and then stretched.

"You want a beer?"

Layne glared at him. Jerry shrugged.

"Hey, just trying to be hospitable, _Blanche_. Don't blame me for the fact that you're not a tangible being."

"I do blame you. After all, I exist only in _your_ mind."

Jerry took one long look at his former best friend before turning and padding to the adjacent kitchen in his socks. The refrigerator light hummed as it switched itself on, and Jerry popped the screw-cap on his beer and took a swig before shutting the door.

"So, have you drawn anything new inside my brain since dying?" He called over his shoulder.

No answer.

Confused and slightly concerned, Jerry was in his living room in three long strides.

He was alone, save for the cat contentedly curled up in the arm chair.

With a sigh that left his lungs feeling as profound as a death sentence, Jerry collapsed onto the arm of the sofa and polished off his beer, staring at the chair and trying to quell his thoughts for what felt like eternity. Gradually becoming conscious of the early morning hour, he hauled himself to his feet again, returned to the kitchen, and tossed the bottle in the trash. He turned off the light, and made his way back to the living room, where he paused once again to ogle the La-Z-boy, trying to force the apparition to reappear.

Nothing happened. He felt and saw nothing, until a brilliant flash of understanding crashed into him.

"_After all, I exist only in your mind._"

A slow smile spread across Jerry Cantrell's face, and he was able to move again. He picked Sadie up off the cushion, and meandered to the stairs. As he began to ascend the steps, he paused by the light switch, taking one last, long look at the living room below him.

"Goodbye, Layne."

And with that, he flicked off the lights, and went upstairs to bed.


End file.
